


The Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name

by gaytectives



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode: The Abominable Bride, M/M, Prequel, Victorian, im in gay hell !
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 13:14:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4961941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaytectives/pseuds/gaytectives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>After all, this is the nineteenth century.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name

**Author's Note:**

> the christmas special is Fucking Me Up, here's a prequel of sorts to my other [special inspired fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4308606), welcome back to hell

Sherlock’s hollow heart pounds and makes him sick to his stomach. The early summer sun that streams over his shoulder burns through his jacket and scalds him. He feels as vulnerable as he’s ever been; an envelope held up to the flaming light of a lantern, its contents visible to the naked eye. His crowded throat threatens to choke him and he swans over to the windows, swiftly drawing the curtains shut and breathing anxiously.

He walks back to his armchair and sinks down slowly, steadying his breath. He tips his head to the side and gazes over the paper on his side table, fingers brushing the article sadly.

“Is that _The Times?”_

Sherlock nearly overturns the table from surprise, jumping from his seat and grabbing the paper. “You’re back early, Watson,” he says, smiling stiffly. “I didn’t expect you home for at least another hour.”

Watson glances between Sherlock’s face and the paper clutched tightly in his fist. “Yes, well,” he says. His eyes narrow suspiciously. “No use is a doctor without medicine. We’ve no cocaine for the surgeries and the opium is being rationed; terrible influenza passing around. We haven’t enough to treat everyone who comes in.”

“Pity,” Sherlock says, only partially compassionate.

“Have you been sitting about in the dark all afternoon?” Watson asks, heading toward the curtains.

The anxiety of having the world watching him rises in Sherlock’s throat and he steps quickly after Watson. “I’ve quite a terrible headache,” he lies, desperately. Watson turns around and Sherlock’s breath catches. He swallows hard and he can feel his fingernails tearing holes in the paper from his grip. “Must - must be the influenza.”

Still squinting, Watson walks over to their bureau. “I should hope not, Holmes,” he says, pulling a match from its box. He strikes the head and lights the desktop lantern. “You know you needn’t keep things from me. Has something happened?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder to Sherlock. His expression grows grave. “Is it - Moriarty?”

“No,” Sherlock says immediately. “No, his status is still… stagnant.”

Relief overcomes Watson’s expression and he nods, assuring himself. “What is it then, good man?”

Sherlock shakes his head, turning to the kitchen. “It is nothing,” he says. “Just a bit of poor news.”

He takes up his pipe from the kitchen table and walks back to the living room. “May I?” He holds his hand out and Watson frowns, handing him the matchbox.

Sherlock holds the paper under his arm and the pipe in his teeth, pulling a match from its box. His hands shake as he tries to strike it. He curses when it snaps in two and pulls out another.

Watson furrows his brows as he watches. “Holmes?”

The second match breaks and Sherlock curses again, going for a third.

“Holmes,” Watson insists.

The third breaks and he throws the matchbox across the room.

“Sherlock!”

Hearing his Christian name from his friend’s lips shocks Sherlock into dropping the pipe from his mouth with a soft gasp. It clatters against the wooden floors, tobacco leaves scattering. Watson reaches over and snatches the crumpled paper, trying to press it back to a flat, legible state.

Fear fills every crevice in Sherlock’s heart and lungs, filling him to the brim and holding him in place. He watches Watson skim the paper with tight-knit brows, and he wants to run, lock himself in his quarters, knowing what’s there on the page and what his friend will think of him when everything comes to light.

“Republic of Formosa,” Watson mutters, shaking his head. “Fred Taral.” He turns the page and pauses. “Wilde,” he says.

Sherlock can see the holes in the article from his fingernails, and his heart is pounding in his ears. “Just a bit of poor news,” he whispers thoughtlessly. He feels suddenly as though he may need to lie down on the floor rather quickly, and there’s black dancing around the edges of his vision.

“Oh, Holmes,” Watson murmurs, his tone rife with sorrow.

 _He knows_ , Sherlock thinks, shocked, as though he didn’t expect Watson to immediately put the pieces together upon reading the article.

Watson looks up from the paper to Sherlock and his expression quickly changes to that of shock. “Good God,” he gasps, dropping the paper and grabbing Sherlock’s arm. “Holmes, you look as though you’ve seen Death himself.”

“I feel rather ill,” Sherlock says faintly. He can feel his breathing is quick and shallow, and that Watson is trying to lower him into a chair. He follows along, leaning against his friend for support.

“Are you alright?”

“Must be that influenza,” Sherlock repeats, trying to avoid hyperventilation. _He knows_. It feels as though the walls of the room are closing in upon him. He has to get out. He tries to rise again, but Watson shoves him firmly down and he chokes on his own breath. “You mustn't speak a word,” Sherlock begs hastily, his eyes watering. “No one can know - you shouldn’t - I never intended - ”

“Please, breathe,” Watson implores, gazing up from his kneeling position on the floor, “You’re going to suffocate yourself.”

“He’ll die,” Sherlock chokes out, clutching Watson’s arm. “They’ll kill him in that prison.”

“Holmes,” Watson whispers.

“I did not want to tell you,” he rambles, “I never imagined this would happen, I thought I - could keep things well under wraps - I beg of you, Watson, don’t tell a soul - ”

“I shan’t,” Watson interrupts. “Holmes, I could never.” He takes Sherlock’s hand and clutches it tightly, and the motion brings Sherlock’s hysterics to a sudden halt as he gazes at his friend bewilderedly.

“Watson - ”

“Sherlock, please,” Watson breathes. “Please, take a moment to regain your composure. Nothing has happened to you, you are safe at home.”

Sherlock takes a slow, stuttering breath and stares at his friend. “John,” he whispers.

“The world hasn’t a clue about what you are,” John promises. “I myself, your closest friend, did not even know for sure until just now.”

“Everyone will be watching, now,” Sherlock says hoarsely. “Hundreds more men will be put away for indecency. We all have pasts, Watson, and I cannot risk mine coming to light, nor can I put you in danger alongside me.”

“Listen,” Watson insists, gripping Sherlock’s hand tighter, “I have never, in our time together, had qualms about being in danger, so long as I am by your side.” His eyes are watery now, and Sherlock’s quivering heart pounds dangerously quickly from their prolonged contact. “I assure you that I would be in no less danger alone on the other side of London than I am here, with you.”

Sherlock gapes, trying to conjure up the right words. “I am not sure that I am hearing you correctly,” he says. The shimmer of hope that rises within him is something treacherous, something that has been tamped down inside of him for so many years now that its presence now is grand and terrifying.

“Then listen back to your own words,” Watson says. “You say we all have a past, and you’re right. Holmes, it’s clear that Mr. Wilde is not an isolated case, but neither are you. If you leave me to attempt to keep me out of danger, the both of us are going to go through this alone.”

“I never knew,” Sherlock whispers.

Watson chuckles. “That is quite the point of remaining behind the curtain,” he says, smiling sadly. “I thought that I could not risk you gaining knowledge of the subject, and I was horrified that you must have been able to tell.” He pauses, swallowing hard. “And when our friendship grew closer, I thought that - perhaps - ” He cuts off, and Sherlock swears he sees his friend’s lip trembling. “It’s not something that you ask about, is it?”

“You could tell,” Sherlock murmurs, “it was obvious enough the way I felt about you that you began to question it.”

But Watson doesn’t go on to reassure him that he wasn’t queer enough for the plain man to see. “Felt?” he asks. “Then, you don’t, still?”

Dejection overcomes Watson’s expression and Sherlock feels as though his heart is trying to tear itself in two directions; toward his stomach from the fear and through the roof of the flat with joy.

“Oh, Watson,” Sherlock exhales, his chest full to the brim.

“I apologise,” Watson says hastily, standing and pulling his hand from Sherlock’s, “I was presumptuous to assume.”

Sherlock stands quickly after him, although he’s already halfway across the room. “Watson, you weren’t,” he promises.

“Just because you sleep diagonally doesn’t mean - ”

“John, listen to me,” Sherlock begs, striding after him. He stops and turns back to Sherlock, his eyes glistening. “You aren’t wrong,” Sherlock says, hardly able to get the words out.

A look of disbelief crosses Watson’s expression; the softness of it makes Sherlock’s heart leap. “I’m not?” Watson whispers.

Sherlock shakes his head minutely and steps forward. “And though I fear what could happen with my affection visible to the common man, I have never been so relieved in my life.”

Watson’s adam’s apple jumps and Sherlock steps forward again, his heart fluttering restlessly. “Sherlock,” Watson says, reaching out to touch Sherlock’s face. “I don’t know that I can explain quite how it feels to say this all aloud.”

“I understand,” Sherlock says, his throat tight. His hand moves forward and settles awkwardly on Watson’s waist. He tips his head forward, holding his breath, and his eyes flutter shut as Watson’s forehead touches his. The fear he feels isn’t enough to overwhelm the sheer joy that overcomes him when John’s lips press lightly against his. He shuffles closer and slides his hand around John’s back, taking a soft, gasping breath when their lips part. He kisses John again, the tip of his cold nose pressed against John’s warm cheek.

He is shoved away suddenly by John’s hand on his chest and his throat closes up with the horrifying thought that he made a terrible mistake - that his friend had changed his mind, or, quite worse, had been lying all along. There is fear in John’s eyes as well and Sherlock stares in great confusion until the door to their sitting room swings open and Mrs. Hudson steps in.

“Mister Holmes, Doctor Watson,” she greets, smiling and nodding to them each. “Have you two been standing about in the dark all afternoon?” She walks over to the drawn-shut windows and throws the curtains back open. “It’s lovely weather today, you ought to enjoy the sunlight - maybe go out for a bit, hmm?”

“A wonderful idea, Mrs. Hudson,” Watson says, his voice strained. He clears his throat and straightens his hat, awkwardly stepping further away from Sherlock. The motion feels like a knife twisting harshly in Sherlock’s heart.

“Are you coming down with that terrible flu?” Mrs. Hudson asks, frowning at him. “It’s a shame they don’t have a better method of keeping you lot from catching ill.”

“Paper masks can only do so much,” Watson agrees. He’s staring down at the floorboards, and then at the far wall, and over to the windows, but Sherlock cannot take his eyes off Watson himself.

“A true pity,” Mrs. Hudson continues, tying back the last curtain. “Well, I only came up to let you know that supper might be a tad late tonight - I’ve only just realised that I ran out of potatoes and I have to go back out to fetch some - ”

“You needn’t worry about dinner, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock says; he can’t think of what in particular compelled him to say it, but it felt as though it was out of his control. “Doctor Watson and I must be out of the city by nightfall; we’ve received a telegraph and must head out straight away.” Watson looks back at him in shock, jaw clenched tightly shut.

“Already?” Mrs. Hudson asks. “You returned from the last one only a few days ago.”

“I’m afraid I’ve no control over the schedule of murderers, you see,” Sherlock says.

“Well, I hope you gain some,” she huffs, heading toward the staircase again. “You're practically paying rent to live _away_ from your flat.”

“Shame,” Sherlock mutters, watching as she walks down the stairs. Watson strides over and shuts the door, locking it hastily.

“A case?” Watson asks breathlessly. “What on God’s green Earth was that?” He’s breathing rather quickly and leaning against the door. He shuts his eyes and tilts his head back. “Oh, Christ,” he gasps. “It’s not safe. We can’t.”

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Sherlock insists, nodding mindlessly. “We’re taking a case in the country.”

“What the _hell_ are you on about?” Watson hisses.

“A trip,” Sherlock explains, “away from the city. Away from the - the trial, and the rumours, and the open windows.”

Watson brings his head back down and gazes at Sherlock, a light coming to his eyes. “A trip,” he says.

“Just the two of us,” Sherlock says, “In relative safety. Watson - John, please. Consider it.”

John looks down and stares at the floorboards, taking them in. “It will look suspicious, the two of us stealing away, after what has happened.”

“I’ll fabricate a case,” Sherlock says, walking over to him. “A terrible string of dismemberments, old country squires. I’ll toss in something about revenge and decades-old resentments. Please,” he begs, wringing his hands. “Just a week. A week’s time away. John, I am as terrified as you are, I assure you, but staying here will be all the worse.”

John nods slowly, standing up off the doorframe. “Alright,” he agrees, looking up at Sherlock. “Just the two of us.”

Sherlock breaks into a grin and exhales a laugh, grabbing John’s arms happily. He remembers the open windows and tenses up, pulling his hands back. “I - um,” he mutters, stepping back. “I’ll - I have to pack a bag.”

“As do I,” John says, softly. He takes a slow breath in and lets it out slowly. “We’re going to be alright, Holmes,” he exhorts.

Sherlock forces himself to smile again and nods, his heart pounding dangerously in his throat. “Of course,” he whispers.

“After all,” John adds shakily, “it is 1895. How much longer could things possibly remain this way?”

 

 

 


End file.
